One. Failure.
"First attempt, never got off prototyping stage."
Two. Failure.
"Second failure. Couldn't get it up."
Funding Cut Back. Completely.
"Must push forward."
Three to Five. Failure.
"Impaired morality system. Memories wiped."
Six to ten. Failure.
"Finishing touches and preparations for the body."
Eleven. I think I'll call him Oliver. Orange hair. Green eyes. Five foot, eight inches. Pea-jacket, tee shirt, both black. Green accents. Black pants. Give him life.
"The last ditch effort that worked! He's alive! And not killing me! Pop the champagne Duncan!"
"As you wish Dr. Kimball."
"Oh, fuck formality! I did it! I made a human!"
"Congratulations. What now?"
"We let him be a person."
And then one day, someone higher up got wind of his success. Some corrupt military type. Travis Mitchell. Distantly related to Marshal Marshall but worse. Has no moral compass.
It took an hour of his time to concede what to do.
It took the length of a single bank transaction, made by the ginger inventor, to burst in and gun down Alexander Henry Kimball.
It took two men, one a former black operative, the other a man of leadership, two minutes to take down Travis Mitchell's hit squad of ten men.
It took one system reboot for Oliver Kimball to forgot his father's death.
It took another one, much later, to remember it.
He did get to really be a person.
And then he wasn't. An object fought over.
Horatio Kellogg, born of a Nelson Kellogg and a Marian Jence, fought for him.
Simon Gessler, known by his former callsign Ulysses, born of a Darrian Decker and a Allison Gessler, taught him to defend himself.
Together, all three brought merry hell upon the law, and Travis Mitchell.
But above all?
They let him be a human. A person.
Alexander would be proud. As would any father.